


Eternity at His Fingertips

by Current_King_of_England



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, M/M, Sherlock's POV, Spoilers, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:10:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Current_King_of_England/pseuds/Current_King_of_England
Summary: Once you open your heart, you can't close it againI needed to know what Sherlock felt the moment he took John Watson into his arms. Please enjoy.UPDATECame across this chapter a few days ago and thought that the Hug was rather one-sided.John needs to have his moment in the spotlight, so here we have some classic angst, comfort, and our favourite doctor stepping in to look after our poor detective.





	1. Chapter 1

Gently setting the chipped mug on the table, Sherlock carefully stands, clenching his jaw slightly as pain spikes through his heavily bruised ribs. He pads over to John, _John_ who had never shed a tear in Sherlock's presence, now hunched over as if kicked in the chest, sobbing into trembling hands.

Even utterly broken, his doctor is too ashamed to show his face.

The thought cuts like a shard of glass caught in Sherlock's throat, and he swallows hard, tears threatening to escape his bloodshot eyes. Walking gingerly over to John, he hesitates, teetering on the cliff of uncertainty  _really Sherlock, you can do better than this_ and cautiously wraps his arms around John Watson. 

His mind stutters as the onslaught of data of  _John John John_ floods the rooms to his mind palace and  _god_ it's almost too much but not quite enough and nothing could of prepared him for this, not even the one-armed affair at the wedding, where he stood with his arms trapped to his side and heart in his throat and was over in seconds.

It occurs to Sherlock that he should say something, and he frantically scans through his folder of 'comforting techniques', landing automatically on

"It's okay-"

"No, it's not okay"

He curses himself inwardly, because of course its not okay, Mary is dead and Sherlock is broken and John sounds as though his life is not one worth living , his voice slightly muffled in the fabric of the dressing gown and Sherlock struggles to concentrate on an appropriate response and not on the fact that he automatically placed his hand on the smooth, warm skin of John's neck. 

He finds himself lowering his head, cheek brushing the smooth grey hair of his doctor as he quietly replies,

'No. But it is what it is" 

The tension in John's shoulders releases, and Sherlock tentatively pulls him closer, not wanting to shatter the fragile moment. In a rush of movement John uncurls his hunched form and  reaches up to wind them around Sherlock's neck, tucking his face in the detectives shoulder as tears wrack his frame. Sherlock stills for a moment, eyes wide until he collapses into the embrace, burying his nose in John's hair. A sob escapes him as he inhales the scent of store-bought shampoo, detergent, gunpowder and  _home._

They stand like that for an eternity, clinging on to each other as they cry out the years of heartache, propping each other up as if neither could stand on his own.

Eventually, emptied of emotion, their tears slow to a trickle as they inhale exhale in unison; the calm after the storm. John pulls back, arms still around Sherlock and smiles weakly at the damp patch on the genius's dress shirt.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, cobalt eyes rimmed in red, and the detective knows with a distressing amount of certainty that he is not just apologising about his ruined shirt.

Instead of closing his features into an impassive expression, Sherlock forces himself to stare back, feeling raw, almost dangerously exposed under the wide eyes of his doctor.

"I- I know, John".

 They smile cautiously and gently pull away, both feeling their arms falling uncomfortably empty to their sides, the unspoken understanding that they would file this under 'never mention again'.

 

With that melancholy realisation held between them, they make their way downstairs an out onto Baker Street.  


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hug™ reciprocated

_John!_

Sherlock jerks awake, heart beating frantically against his ribs as he tears himself from the stranglehold of his sweat-drenched sheets. He gasps for oxygen, desperately trying to slow his pulse; the sudden intake of air sears his throat, and he realizes with a flush of shame that he had been shouting, screaming loud enough to wake Mrs. Turner’s married ones. 

The detective digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, colours flashing behind his lids as he tries to erase the image seared in his mind; John lying facedown in that godforsaken well, body limp and motionless in the dark water. 

“Sherlock?”

The voice is quiet, rough and pitched an octave lower, clinging on to the remnants of sleep. Sherlock startles, hands lowering down from his face as he looks up as his doctor leaning heavily against the doorframe. John is wearing joggers and a faded blue shirt stretched out of shape from years of wear. His hair, normally soldiered into place with copious amounts of product now sleep- rumpled, silver strands falling over his lined forehead. Sherlock’s focus zeros in on his doctor, analyzing, tracking and filing away data hungrily- _dark circles beneath eyes; hasn't slept solidly in weeks, obviously due to the wakefulness of Rosie Drank a frankly disgusting beer at 7:47-no - 7:55pm Visited online dating site, closed immediately due to overwhelming guilt; visible in clenching of left fist at 8 second intervals -_ the indisputable truth about John being very much alive found within the information so easily traced in his solid, compact body. 

Sherlock glances into his doctor’s face, and feels a painful, hollow tightening in his chest as he meets the deep blue gaze full of with concern and something that the detective daren’t identify, a gaze that makes the detective feel far to small for his skin. 

“Sherlock are you alright? Only you were shouting…”

He trails off, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he looks into the genius’ face, searching for the answer to something he was unable to ask for. 

“I’m perfectly fine, John”.

Sherlock feels his voice crack on the name, his very body betraying him, revealing emotion bleeding through his iron clad restraint. He stares down at his trembling fingers and locks them together on his lap, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

In a flurry of movement, John straightens up and strides across the room, kneeling beside the detective and wrapping a strong arm around his shoulders. At the warm touch, Sherlock feels his resolve crumble and he folds, a sob tearing free from his chest, cracking his ribs and searing his throat . Years of cool distance, a colder wedding band and single-response text messages fades away as he sinks into the warm embrace of his doctor. He _needs_ John, more than he could ever dare to say; the man who stopped him dead in his tracks with the first breathless ‘ _amazing’ ,_ his short-tempered doctor who argues with the chip-and -pin machine at Tesco’s, whose eyes are ringed with dark circles and forehead lined with exhaustion because of the pain Sherlock caused him and yet he is here, making tea at the flat in the flurry of a case and now holding the detective’s shaking frame against his own short, compact body as if he can hold together the pieces of Sherlock by sheer force. 

The paradox of John Watson fascinated him from the first moments;  the crackshot who hates using his gun, the soldier who heals, the ruthless killer who _cares_ far too much and Sherlock realizes in an overwhelming instant that he has fallen in love with his enigma. 

He buries his face into the warmth of his doctor's neck, shakily inhaling the sleepy scent of him. The essence of John fills his lungs and calms the natural disaster of his mind, warmth radiating to his fingertips. A gentle hand cards through his tangled, sweaty mass of curls and a low voice rough with sleep murmurs,

"It'll be alright, my love. It's all fine”.

A final tear slips through Sherlock's closed eyes, getting caught on his lashes before sliding down a pale, hollowed cheek. John stares down at the man in his arms, weak with exhaustion and trembling slightly in the aftermath of the storm, and feels a wave of love overwhelm his senses. He knows, with a terrifying certainty that he has battled, desperately repressed and swallowed back this emotion, these feelings since the moment he laid eyes on the brilliant detective and was pulled into orbit around the burning light of his mind, his very presence a magnet for John's then grey and monotonous existence. An ache radiates in chest, scorching his throat and searing his eyes, blinding him with tears. 

_I do not deserve this man._    

This realization treads on the heels of the first tentative understanding, the first tendril of light, and replaces it with a leaden weight on the doctor's shoulders. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block the images flooding his mind; his fist connecting with a sharp cheekbone, again and again drawing blood from the beautiful face not being able to stop the rage blurring his vision and curling his hands into fists needing to hurt, to make **him** feel the agony he was feeling himself-

Cool fingertips graze his jaw and he startles out his reverie, eyes blinking open and finding the _blue green gold_ gaze of his detective, stark against the bruises of exhaustion and the remnants of a left hook shadowing the delicate skin of his eyelids. He swallows hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the gaunt cheekbones, angular jaw dusted with stubble,  and he raises a hand, wanting to brush the damp curls off the detective’s pale forehead, tilting his head down, closer and-

With a start, John wrenches his hand away, the shock and shame of what he was about to do hitting him hard round the head. Sherlock is still so terribly injured, his face battered, looking had a bad run-in with a lorry and John just lost his _wife,_ for chrissake and here he is, butterflies in his stomach like a ruddy teenager testing out his first kiss. 

  
The doctor sighs, running a hand down his worn face, shifts his body away from the detective and rocks to his feet, back aching and stiff. He gently maneuvers the detective under the covers, automatically tucking the duvet around his frame and studiously avoiding eye contact. Straightening, he turns and makes his way towards the door. 

“John.” 

Sherlock’s voice rasps out from behind him, and he turns.

“Get me some water, will you. I feel as though I have swallowed road salt.”

John smirks at the put-upon disdainful tone of the detective, his voice cracking on the last syllable ruining the grandeur effect. Sherlock narrows his eyes in response, daring the doctor to comment while lying in a right state on the bed, hair an absolute disaster and quilts tucked up to his ears. John fights to keep the smile off his face as he says quietly, 

“Yeah, yeah of course, Sherlock". 

John pulls the door gently behind him and makes his way to the cluttered kitchen to get a glass for Sherlock. When he softly pushes open the wooden door minutes later, he finds his detective out cold, snoring lightly. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are again, folks. Months later with some heavy angst to get you to Christmas.  
> Thanks for reading- I really appreciate the love and support :)

**Author's Note:**

> TLD broke by heart  
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
